


we could call it even

by diogxnes



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (Hopper is alive don't ask questions), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Battle of Starcourt (Stranger Things), Pre-Relationship, but can also be read platonically if that's more your thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28720320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diogxnes/pseuds/diogxnes
Summary: Jonathan finds himself lying in bed next to Steve Harrington. Somehow, it’s not the strangest thing that’s happened this week.
Relationships: Jonathan Byers & Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington
Comments: 17
Kudos: 125





	we could call it even

**Author's Note:**

> i've been listening to entirely too much taylor swift and this is the result. title from "tis the damn season," which is obviously about stonathan.

Jonathan considers himself something of an expert by this point when it comes to dealing with the aftermath of the world almost ending.

There’s a pattern to this, a routine. Usually, when he finally crashes, it’s to fall asleep with his arms around Will and his mom, all three of them in his mom’s bed. It’s always hard to let either of them out of his sight the first few days. Even last November, when he’d only just entered into something new and beautiful with Nancy, he’d barely spoken to her for almost a week after everything was over. He’d just holed up with his family, watching feel-good movies together and playing board games and cooking for them, afraid that if he turned his back for a single second Will might disappear again, or worse.

It’s always been just the three of them against the world, and that never feels more acutely true than when they’re all recuperating together after yet another brush with the supernatural.

But it’s different this year. Will seems more or less fine, for one thing—shaken, obviously, but somehow the least hurt out of any of them this time around. It’s El who can’t stop crying now that the adrenaline’s faded and there’s nothing to stop her feeling the full agony of her sliced-open leg and the full trauma of watching Billy die while standing between her and the Mind Flayer; it’s El who’s curled up in his mom’s bed between his mom and Hopper. He can hear the muffled sounds of them trying to soothe her even through the closed door.

And, for another thing, Steve Harrington is standing in his living room.

Well— _standing_ is generous. Really, Steve seems like he’s barely able to keep himself upright. He’s slumped against the wall, eyes half shut, head tipped back as if he might just fall asleep right there. Jonathan wouldn’t blame him if he did. He doesn’t really know what’s happened to Steve these past few days, but from the little bit he’s been able to piece together, it sounds like it was just as bad if not worse than what the rest of them were dealing with. 

It had been his mom’s idea to bring to Steve home with them. Jonathan gets it, he does. Steve somehow looks even worse now than he did last year after getting his face smashed in by Billy Hargrove. Jonathan doesn’t need to be a paramedic to know that he’s definitely got a concussion, or a doctor to know that he really shouldn’t be home alone in that state, and apparently—Steve had admitted this only under a combination of his mom’s gentle prodding and Hopper’s fierce stare—his parents aren’t in town. So, yeah, Jonathan gets it.

Still. Doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.

“So, uh.” He shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. “You wanna…borrow some clothes to change into, or something?”

It’s not that he hates Steve anymore. He seems like a nice enough guy—certainly he’s changed a lot since sophomore year, if the kids’ regard for him is anything to go by. It’s more just that he doesn’t really _know_ Steve except as his current girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend and the guy he occasionally fights monsters with. That’s not much basis for a friendship, he doesn’t think.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Steve pushes himself upright, then sways so dramatically that Jonathan instinctively steps forward as if to catch him. He steadies himself on his own, though, bracing himself with one hand against the wall. He smirks slightly, and Jonathan can’t tell if it’s meant to be self-deprecating or if he’s being made fun of for his concern. “Lead the way.”

Jonathan shows him down the hall to his bedroom, staying close beside him to catch him if necessary. He’s worried for Steve, sure, he’s a big enough person to admit that—what kind of psychopath _wouldn’t_ be worried about someone who’s just been held captive by a foreign military?—but the dominant emotion he feels right now is a vague sense of resentment. He should be with Will right now, not Steve. Will had insisted he was fine, that he would be perfectly okay going to bed on his own while their mom and Hopper took care of El and Jonathan got Steve settled, but still. He doesn’t think it’s unreasonable that he’d rather be watching over his little brother than guiding a wobbly Steve Harrington to his bedroom.

Steve is out of breath by the time they get there, deathly pale under all the bruising and looking about a second from passing out. Still, he leans himself against the wall again instead of going to the bed. Jonathan rolls his eyes. Steve Harrington and his goddamn _ego._ With a hot flash of annoyance, Jonathan almost hopes he _does_ faint. The moment passes quickly and leaves him feeling ashamed. He knows he himself wouldn’t be eager to show any weakness in front of Steve if their roles were reversed.

He gestures to the bed. “You can, like. Sit down.”

Steve takes long enough to answer that Jonathan wonders if maybe he’s fallen asleep, somehow, in the few seconds that he’s been standing propped against the wall. Then at last he straightens up, making it look like an even more difficult task than it had been a minute ago in the living room, and staggers across the room to sink down on the edge of Jonathan’s bed. He scrubs a hand over his face in exhaustion, apparently having briefly forgotten all the cuts and bruises, and then hisses in pain when he accidentally brushes the giant purple welt covering his left eye. “Shit,” he mutters, quietly enough that he probably didn’t mean for Jonathan to hear. Jonathan isn’t sure what he can possibly say to make things better, so instead of saying anything, he turns away from Steve and busies himself rummaging through the dresser for something that’ll fit him.

When he turns back around a moment later holding a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that he’s at least eighty percent sure are clean, Steve’s collapsed backwards so that he’s lying down now, though his feet are still planted on the floor. His eyes are closed and Jonathan is worried for a moment that he really _has_ fainted. He really hopes that’s not the case. If nothing else, from a medical perspective, he would have absolutely no idea how to deal with that situation.

“Uh, Steve? You awake?”

Steve raises his head just enough to blink blearily at Jonathan before falling back again. “Hmph.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Jonathan drily, and he’s pleasantly surprised when it provokes a laugh—albeit an exhausted-sounding one—from Steve. “You’re gonna have to sit up if you want to change, though.”

Steve grumbles again but does push himself upright. He eyes the clothes in Jonathan’s arms warily. “You better have found me something less awful than your usual style, Byers.”

Jonathan tenses. He takes it back, the concern—this guy’s an arrogant asshole, just like he’s always been, and Jonathan can’t _believe_ he’s stuck here taking care of him. “You can just keep wearing that stupid uniform, if you’d rather,” he says coolly.

“Jesus, relax,” says Steve, a huff of laughter in his voice. “I’m kidding. You have excellent style.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jonathan feels a flush creeping up his neck. He sees himself suddenly the way Steve must see him—awkward, idiotic, fumbling, too self-absorbed and defensive to take a joke. He feels as if he’s fifteen again, silent and hunch-shouldered as cool-guy Steve brushes at his jacket condescendingly. _That’s the thing about perverts._ He shakes himself. Steve’s not that person anymore, and neither is he. He hands over the clothes without another word. “I’ll leave you to get changed.” He snags another t-shirt and pair of sweatpants out of his dresser and quickly leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

It’s not until he’s locked the bathroom door behind him that he fully registers how much pain he’s in himself. This is the first moment he’s been alone since Nancy called him about twenty hours ago and asked to speak to Will.

_Is he safe?_

_Why wouldn’t he be safe?_

He shudders. Will’s safe now, anyway, but that doesn’t do much to dispel the sharp pain where Tom slammed a stool into his back, or the aching that radiates through his entire body. And he still has a couple of broken ribs that, between making sure his mom and Will were okay and checking on all the other kids and now trying to deal with Steve, he’s managed to forget about entirely. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and quickly looks away. He doesn’t nearly look as bad as Steve does, but that’s not a very high bar.

He keeps his eyes trained deliberately on the floor while he changes, not wanting to have to see how awful his back and torso must look. There’s nothing he can do about it anyway, and he thinks he’ll probably have an easier time convincing himself it doesn’t hurt all that badly if he can’t actually see the damage. Still, he can’t help the low string of curses that escapes him as he bends to pull his sweatpants up, and again as he raises his arms to pull the shirt over his head.

He hopes Steve’s faring better than he is, but given the state of his face, it seems unlikely the Russians left the rest of him alone.

When he leaves the bathroom, his bloody, sweat-soaked clothes bunched up in his arms, he realizes he can’t hear El crying anymore, can’t hear his mom and Hopper speaking to her in low, soothing voices. There’s just an soft, unfamiliar snoring that he assumes must be Hopper. He feels a little bit of the tension bleed out of him. It’s not his fault, he knows that logically; what choice had there been, when a piece of the Mind Flayer was squirming around inside El’s leg? Still, he can’t help but feel responsible for the pain she’s in now. It’s a relief to know that she’s finally found some relief, if only temporarily.

Before returning to his own room he stops outside of Will’s. The door is shut and for a moment he just stands there quietly, listening hard. He can’t hear anything, though that does little to dispel his anxiety. Jonathan knows him well enough to know that even if he’s lying awake in the dark trying not to hyperventilate he won’t seek out help, not if he thinks that his mom and brother are both occupied with more important things.

But there’s nothing Jonathan could be occupied with that’s more important to him than Will, so he turns the knob silently and cracks the door open just wide enough to peer into the room. Will’s asleep, he sees with relief, and appears to be nightmare-free.

He feels, by the time he gets back to his own door, like his legs are going to give out any moment. Apparently, changing into some clean clothes and seeing that his family is peacefully sleeping was all it took for the full weight of his exhaustion to set in. Until now, he hadn’t really believed that the crisis was over.

He hears a thud from inside his bedroom, followed by muffled swearing.

Well. Not quite over.

“Steve?” He knocks on lightly on the door, not wanting to wake anyone else in the house. “Uh. You okay?”

“Shit,” he hears Steve mutter, then more clearly, “Uh, maybe?”

That’s not as comforting as Jonathan would like it be, but at least Steve isn’t passed out on his bedroom floor. “Can I come in?”

“Uh, shit, hang on.” There’s some scuffling noises, punctuated by pained-sounding grunts from Steve. Jonathan’s just about to ask again when Steve finally calls, breathlessly, “Okay, I’m good.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when Jonathan opens the door, dressed in Jonathan’s sweatpants but still wearing his Scoops Ahoy shirt. He’s somehow even paler than he was before and panting slightly, as if just changing out of his work shorts had been an enormous exertion. Given how much trouble Jonathan himself had with changing his clothes, he doesn’t blame him.

“I can’t get this stupid fucking shirt off,” says Steve. He looks embarrassed, which is an expression Jonathan’s pretty sure he’s never seen on him before. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was _fine_ earlier.”

“Adrenaline,” says Jonathan simply.

Steve laughs, but it’s a hollow, humorless sound. “I knew the Mind Flayer had to be good for something.”

“You should send a thank-you note.”

This time Steve’s laugh sounds almost genuine. It ends in a sharp hiss of pain, though, and Steve’s hand goes to his ribs before he seems to remember that touching them will only make it hurt worse and lets it fall back to his lap. _“Fuck.”_

“Sorry,” says Jonathan.

Steve looks up at him, perplexed. “It’s not _your_ fault.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Jonathan’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, really. But sitting here uselessly while Steve fiddles with the hem of his shirt, in too much pain to bring himself to make another attempt at pulling it over his head, he can’t help but feel a bit guilty. He’s painfully aware of the fact that Nancy left Steve for him, of how he had been the one to throw the first punch that day in the alley, no matter how well-deserved. He’s aware that, if not for him, Steve would never have been pulled into all this monster shit in the first place. Though Jonathan’s hardly ever even _spoken_ to Steve, he feels as if their lives have been inextricably bound up with one another’s these past few years, and the result for Steve has been nothing but pain.

“Let me help?” he asks quietly.

Steve stares at him. He looks like he’s about to make some kind of sarcastic, biting remark, but then he seems to deflate. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and Jonathan takes it as permission to move over a few feet on the bed so that their shoulders are almost touching.

Jonathan lightly grasps the hem of Steve’s shirt, then hesitates. “Okay?”

“Well, normally I’d at least buy you dinner first, but given the circumstances…”

Jonathan smiles briefly, though he knows Steve can’t see his face. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

He wonders, suddenly, what Nancy would say if she was here to see Jonathan helping her ex-boyfriend undress. Would she be upset? But then, why should she be? He’s not undressing Steve like _that. I always took you for a queer._ He swallows hard. No, this definitely isn’t that. He carefully slides the shirt up over Steve’s torso, trying to be gentle but still eliciting a sharp yelp that, coming from Steve, is a little alarming.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Steve’s eyes are squeezed shut. “Just take my shirt off, Byers.”

His back doesn’t look so bad. For a moment Jonathan feels a swell of something between relief and irritation, thinking Steve’s just being dramatic. Then he tugs the shirt the rest of the way over Steve’s head and is unable to stop the noise of shock that he makes in the back of his throat.

Steve’s entire torso is covered in varying shades of purple and red—his stomach, his chest, everything. His skin is so bruised and mottled that it doesn’t even look like _skin_ anymore—it more closely resembles a badly-done tie-dye job. There’s a few places where the paramedics have slapped on bandages, but they haven’t done a good job of clearing away all the blood. There’s still splotches of it in places, dried and flaky and black.

“Jesus,” Jonathan tries to say, but it comes out as little more than a croak.

Steve slumps back so that he’s lying down again. “Hot, right?”

“I mean.” Jonathan forces himself to look away. He stares at his own hands instead. “If you’re into that…war-torn sort of look, I guess.”

Steve barks a laugh. “War-torn. Makes me sound pretty badass.”

He’s grinning, sort of, but Jonathan doesn’t miss the way his eyes are still screwed up in pain. “Did the paramedics give you anything? For the pain?”

“Nah. Well, just some Tylenol or something. Said they couldn’t risk giving me the good stuff in case I’ve still got truth serum in my system.”

“Truth—I’m sorry, _what?”_

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Steve cracks one eye open to look up at Jonathan, then closes it again. “It was part of the whole kidnapped-and-tortured-by-evil-Russians deal.” He raises one hand to flap it lazily at his neck, where there’s a small welt that Jonathan hadn’t noticed before. “Didn’t seem to believe I was just some schmuck scooping ice cream for a living.”

“You’re not just some schmuck,” says Jonathan lamely, though his mind is racing with _torture torture torture._ He hadn’t known there was actual torture involved. He hopes Steve’s exaggerating. But then again, going by the state of his torso, he probably isn’t.

Steve laughs drily. “Aren’t I, though?”

Jonathan looks down at Steve—and for the first time he finds himself _really_ looking, really seeing. He knows Steve’s not the person he used to be, but he hasn’t really thought about it much. Suddenly the difference is so striking that he wonders how that’s possible. There’s no trace left of the King Steve who broke Jonathan’s camera and graffitied the alley with his and Nancy’s names. Instead, looking into his face, Jonathan sees only what Will and the kids must see—what Nancy must have seen, once.

“No,” he says, “you’re not. Now sit up, we’ve still gotta get a shirt on you.”

Steve grumbles dramatically, but does push himself back up. “Fine,” he huffs, and raises his arms up like a petulant child waiting to be dressed.

The t-shirt doesn’t quite fit him. He’s taller than Jonathan, and a couple inches of skin show between the hem and his waistband. Even that far down, Jonathan can see bruising.

And things are awkward again, suddenly. Steve’s dressed now, the bloodied Scoops uniform tossed away in a corner, and he looks like he’s about to fall asleep here on Jonathan’s bed. It would be cruel to move him, Jonathan thinks. He’s not making someone that beaten up sleep on the couch. He could just leave Steve here, he supposes, and go sleep in Will’s bed with him. But Will’s already sleeping, and Jonathan doesn’t want to accidentally wake him up.

He stands up, unsure exactly where he plans on going.

“Where’re you going?” Steve mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Uh.” He looks around his room as if it’ll provide an answer. “I need to go make sure Will’s okay.”

“He’s not asleep?”

“No, he is.”

“You should leave him alone, then.” Steve raises his head to look blearily at Jonathan. “You should be sleeping too. I’ll give you your bed back. Just...gimme a sec.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “You’re staying there, idiot. I’m not making you sleep on the couch in this state.”

“But—”

“Seriously, man. I’ll be fine. I’m way less beat up than you are.” As if on cue his back throbs in protest, but now that he’s offered Steve the bed, he’s not going to change his mind. No matter how much he wants to. Maybe, if he sneaks into Will’s room really quietly…

“There’s room for both of us up here,” says Steve.

Jonathan stares at him, a protest on his lips. He’s not fucking _sharing a bed_ with Steve Harrington. Absolutely not. He’ll be fine on the couch. Better on the couch, actually, because he’ll be there if someone, anyone, tries to get into the house. He’ll be able to keep watch over his family, and he’ll be perfectly comfortable, and it’ll be just fine.

The bed does look really comfortable, though.

“Stop overthinking everything, man,” Steve says. “It isn’t weird unless you make it weird.”

And Jonathan can’t argue with that, so, wordlessly, he goes around to the other side of the bed. He turns off the lamp.

“This okay?” he asks into the sudden darkness.

Steve makes a mumbling noise that sounds like a yes.

He lies down slowly, careful not to jostle Steve around too much. For a long few minutes they lie side by side in silence. He listens to Steve breathing slowly in and out through a nose that, by the sound of it, is definitely still a bit clogged with blood.

He assumes Steve’s fallen asleep, and tries to make himself relax enough to do the same.

Sleep won’t come, though. It’s not even because he’s afraid to close his eyes, the way he so often is these days. He knows the nightmares will come eventually—they always do—but right now he feels oddly calm. And, infuriatingly, it’s the fact that he feels so calm that’s keeping him awake.

He _shouldn’t_ be so calm. It should be unbearably awkward, lying in bed next to Steve Harrington. And it isn’t. Instead, feeling Steve’s weight on the bed beside him and hearing his even breaths, he feels safer than he has in a very long time.

A long time passes before he speaks, almost against his own will. It’s barely a whisper. He doesn’t know for certain whether Steve’s really asleep, and he doesn’t want to wake him if he is. “Hey, Steve?”

The sheets rustle beside him and, though he keeps his own eyes trained firmly on the ceiling, he can feel Steve turning his head to look over at him. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

There’s a long silence, and finally Jonathan turns his head too. In the dark, he can just make out Steve’s eyes. “Seriously, man, you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“I’m not just talking about the monsters and Russians and shit.”

“Neither am I,” says Steve.

Jonathan stares at him. His voice is soft, serious, genuine, and there’s no trace at all of the resentment that Jonathan has always assumed Steve feels towards him.

“And for the record,” Steve continues, “I’m sorry too.”

Jonathan forces himself to smile, though there’s an inexplicable tightness growing in his throat. Steve smiles back.

“So…we’re good then?”

“Yeah.” Without thinking, he slides his hand over to nudge at Steve’s. And Steve, instead of pulling away, twines his pinky around Jonathan’s to keep it there. The lump in Jonathan’s throat grows. So does his smile. “Yeah, we’re good.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! you can find me on tumblr @ diogxnes


End file.
